


god knows we like archaic kinds of fun

by selenedaydreams



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Italy nt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13277874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams
Summary: There’s a raw kind of honesty behind that answer that catches Ciro off guard. There’s also the implication that at his lowest, probably most miserable moment, Lorenzo wantshimand that thought alone is enough to terrify him.





	god knows we like archaic kinds of fun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> for caitlin - words can't explain how grateful i am for your friendship and the fact that i had the honor of meeting you last year and befriending you. these past few weeks haven't been easy for me but you've been there for me through it all, putting up with all my ranting and everything and anything in between. i know we've both been very emotional about the topic of this fic so i hope it does our mess of emotions justice.
> 
> title from lorde's _glory and gore_

Ciro has never considered himself exceptionally religious. He does the bare minimum - goes to church during the holidays and keeps the laminated icon his grandmother bought for him tucked safely inside his wallet. But when he watches the fourth official lift his board to announce the final substitution, he finds himself praying that the number ten will flash in green.

Instead, he sees the number twenty and a cold feeling rushes through him. He stares at him - Lorenzo - watches him still sitting on the far corner of the bench as Antonio clasps hands with Federico before he makes his way onto the field.

Federico is a superstar, that’s not the problem. He’s a future attacking genius. He’s an up and coming wonder boy and yeah, that’s exactly it - up and coming, _inexperienced_ , not the current love affair of all of Napoli.

He only has a few seconds to dwell on that before Jorginho feds him the ball and he pushes past the burning ache in his legs to spur into action. He manages to dribble past one, two Swedish defenders but by the time he’s almost nutmegged the third, he’s already surrounded. Again.

A part of him wants to scream in frustration, wants to grab the closest yellow jersey and tell him to stop being a coward and attack instead of parking the fucking bus. Except they would do the same thing if they were them. They’ve _done_ the same thing.

Maybe this is karma, he thinks when the final whistle blows, maybe the universe or God is trying to teach them a lesson. Maybe it’s just easier to pretend there’s some grand meaning behind everything instead of facing the harsh reality of bad call ups and even worse line ups.

 

 

 

Normally, they would leave immediately, shove past each other to climb into the plane and celebrate or lick their wounds ten thousand meters above ground. At least in France they had the luxury of barricading themselves in their training camp until the competition was over.

 

 

  

Andrea catches his wrist as he ducks into the dressing room. There’s a calming sort of comfort that radiates from the brief contact and Ciro finds himself leaning closer to him as he speaks.

He tells him that he’s heading back to Turin tonight and that their hotel room is his if he wants it. Ciro hasn’t thought about leaving or staying, he hasn’t been able to think about anything other than the slew of missed chances and wasted opportunities. Andrea’s own train of thought is probably not that far off, he guesses. Ciro pats his shoulder, fingers lingering over his still damp skin, as Andrea’s own hand reaches out to squeeze his hip before offering him a sad, sympathetic smile.

On his way to the showers, he passes Gigi and the rest of their defense hunched over in the furthest most corner of the dressing room. It’s unsettling in the most jarring way possible to see them this way, so defeated and broken, so much unlike the unwavering wall of confidence he’s grown accustomed to having behind him.

As he slides past them, from the corner of his eye he watches Gigi reach out to cover Leo’s knee with his hand.

 

 

 

The ride back to the hotel is a blur.

He vaguely remembers slipping on his streets clothes before calling a cab. The driver, thankfully, doesn’t recognize him, leaving him to sink into the backseat bench and into the chaos of his own thoughts, counting lamp posts to keep from recounting exactly how many penalties the referee didn’t award them.

When they stop at a red light, his phone buzzes inside his jacket pocket. He assumes it’s a lofty group text from Gigi telling them all to keep their heads up or an unintelligible drunk text from Marco who’s no doubt drowning his misery in a stupidly expensive bottle of champagne inside his Paris flat. What he doesn’t expect is a text from Lorenzo asking him if he’s on his way back to Rome.

 _No_ , Ciro writes back, _I’m on my way back to the hotel_ , followed by the unnecessary yet apparently entirely necessary explanation of, _Andrea left me the room to myself, I’m gonna raid the mini fridge and pass out in the bathtub._

It takes less than a minute for Lorenzo to respond back.

_I have rum._

And oh, okay. That sounds pretty damn enticing. That sounds way better than cheap, small bottles of vodka and the lonely solitude of an empty room.

_I’ll be there soon._

 

 

 

The nostalgia of the situation doesn’t escape him. It’s hazy and palpable and feels pleasantly overwhelming as the doors of the elevators close with a soft ding before him. They never had to overcome many losses at Pescara, certainly none of this magnitude, but the sentiment is similar.

Lorenzo is Napoli’s golden boy - their hometown hero - and that’s fine, that’s how it was always supposed to play out. From the very first goal he scored in Serie B, he knew it was only a matter of time before they took him back. He just assumed Juventus would do the same for him.

It’s not that he’s not happy for him, Ciro has never not been but happy for him. It’s just that you can be happy for someone while also simultaneously being incredibly jealous of them. There’s nothing easy about watching your best friend bang in goal after goal and hear the crowd shout his name while you make a forgettable grand tour of Italy (And Germany. And Spain.).

It’s fine though, Rome seems willing enough to learn to love him.

 

 

 

Ciro finds him sitting on the floor beside the bed, legs spread out to accommodate the giant bottle of golden rum nestled between them. There’s a cool breeze blowing in through the open balcony door and he hates the fact that his first thought is to ask him if he’s cold.

Instead, he shuts the door with his foot, closing it loud enough to announce his presence, though he has no doubt Lorenzo heard him open it. He walks towards him and reaches for the bottle without hesitation, drinking fast and sloppy and until he feels warmth spread through him from something other than shame and anger.

He’s acutely aware of the fact that Lorenzo is watching, glazed gaze bouncing between his lips and throat, making Ciro chug another burning mouthful. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist before handing the bottle back and shedding his jacket, letting it pool at his feet as he moves to sit down beside him on the plush carpet.

Lorenzo is still watching him. When Ciro sits down, his eyes linger on where their shoulders and thighs are now touching and for a moment, Ciro wonders if he’s going to shift away and put some probably much needed distance between them. Lorenzo doesn’t and turns his attention back to the rum.

It’s Ciro’s turn to stare. He watches him wrap his lips around the mouth of the bottle - the same place his own lips had been just moments prior. He’s shared countless bottles of water and sports drinks with countless teammates, Lorenzo included, and yet.

There’s a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him that this is dangerous, that this was dangerous from the moment he agreed to come here, but the thing is, no one really teaches you how to deal with your own country breaking your heart so.

“I’m sorry.” Ciro says because it’s the only thing that feels right to say.

Lorenzo stops, lowering the bottle that was halfway to his lips when Ciro started speaking. “For what?”

For not scoring. For the fact that you should’ve been subbed in, _should’ve started_. “For ignoring your calls.” Comes out instead and it might as well because opening old wounds can’t possibly hurt as much as the fresh ones he made earlier tonight.

There’s an awkward and tense moment of silence before Lorenzo replies, eyes fixed on the bottle’s label that he’s now picking at the corner of. “There’s so many things I wanted tell you. So many angry voicemails I almost left you. I mean, I probably would’ve done the same thing if I were you, I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I know how you felt.” A soft laugh follows and Lorenzo finally looks up at him. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile and Ciro finds himself returning it without meaning to. “But maybe after tonight, I do.”

It’s not exactly funny. There’s absolutely nothing funny about any of this but cheap, fake laughter is marginally better than tears.

Ciro feels Lorenzo heavier against him, looks down to find him leaning in closer. Metaphorical warning lights flash before him but all he can focus on is Lorenzo’s comforting, warm weight.

“Is it bad that I want to kiss you right now?” Lorenzo asks, already capping the rum and pushing the bottle a safe distance away from them.

“Is that why you texted me?”

Another pause. “Maybe.”

There’s a raw kind of honesty behind that answer that catches Ciro off guard. There’s also the implication that at his lowest, probably most miserable moment, Lorenzo wants _him_ and that thought alone is enough to terrify him because they never labeled this. There were never any rules or conversations or anything that defined them. They laid the groundwork of their relationship in shared beds during away matches and rushed locker room blowjobs because it was easy but somewhere along the line things shifted and morphed into something else.

Ciro still doesn’t think he has the proper words for this so he falls back on and the tried and true and bridges the gap between them, sliding their lips together with practiced ease. There are hands tugging Lorenzo closer, pulling him into his lap until they’re pressed so close together that Ciro can feel his hammering heart beating through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hopes Lorenzo feels his too.

Ciro leaves a trail of kisses down the side of his neck while Lorenzo’s hands push at the hem of his shirt until he gets the hint to lean back far enough for him to pull it off. “Remember when we won five in a row and you let me fuck you on the balcony of your apartment?” Ciro asks, voice muffled against Lorenzo’s skin.

He feels Lorenzo playfully shove at him so he goes down willingly, maneuvers them so his back lays flat on the carpet while Lorenzo straddles his hips. “Remember when I scored the winning goal to win us the league and you begged me to fuck you?” Lorenzo bites back with no real malice but there’s a triumphant smile on his lips that Ciro can’t help but kiss away, pulling his hair just hard enough to hear him gasp and moan.

“Tell me what you want.” Ciro says, more demand than question, kissing him one final time before letting him answer.

“I won’t beg, if that’s what you want to hear.”

Ciro’s fingers find their way into his hair again, pushing the messy strands out of his forehead. “You don’t have to.”

Lorenzo pauses, looking down at him with an unreadable expression but if Ciro had to guess, it’s mainly surprise. It looks like he’s considering a response but soon enough, the moment passes and Ciro finds him shimmying out of his sweatpants, prompting him to do the same with his own jeans.

It’s particularly messy and lacking finesse. Lorenzo elbows Ciro just below his ribs by accident, kissing the spot immediately after and reaching down to stroke him slowly in apology. Moving over to the bed crosses his mind but then Lorenzo stretches to reach into his bag before reaching behind himself all other thoughts are forgotten.

Ciro’s watches him, rememorizing everything from the way his nails scrape across his chest, leaving faint, white lines behind, to the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip to keep quiet. When he sinks down onto him, Ciro’s thumb absentmindedly rubs soothing circles into the soft skin of his hip.

Lorenzo leans in closer to press their foreheads together. Ciro lets him set the pace, lets him ride him as fast and as hard as he wants because this he can give him. This he can control.

Through the haze and buzz of the rum that mixes with the frantic movement of Lorenzo’s hips, he manages to remember to reach between. He gets him off with a few messy strokes, nipping at the junction between his neck and shoulder before spilling inside him.

Ciro vaguely remembers how much he used to hate that but when Lorenzo lifts his head to meet his gaze, there’s a soft, pleased smile on his lips that tells a different story. They make out in the afterglow and Ciro rolls his hips just to hear him whimper and claw frantically at his shoulders. He does it several more time before finally taking mercy on him and slipping out of him.

Lorenzo is pliant and bone tired above him, letting Ciro wipe him down with his shirt as best as he can before half lifting him onto the bed. His fingers reach for Ciro’s wrist as he struggles with the covers, pulling him into bed next to him. Ciro feels himself surrendering to the grief and exhaustion as soon as his back hits the mattress.

 

 

 

In the morning, Ciro wakes up to the sun in his eyes, which only serves to aggravate the pounding in his head. Beside him, Lorenzo scrolls lazily through his phone. He tugs the cover closer to his body to ward off the early morning light, casting a glance at the balcony door and distantly remembering getting up to shut it and pull the blinds closed in the middle of the night.

Ciro brushes Lorenzo’s ankle with his toes to get his attention. “Please tell me you’re just as hungover as I am.”

“Probably worse.” Lorenzo groans, sliding his phone onto the bedside table before turning on his side to face him.

There’s a joke in there about what terrible lightweights they are but it’s left unsaid. Instead, Lorenzo shifts close to him to plant his icy feet on his calves. Ciro shivers but doesn’t pull away. “What now?”

The covers rustle together as Ciro shrugs his shoulders. What exactly is he supposed to say besides the obvious box standard answer? “We focus on our clubs…we do well in the Euros.”

“I meant us.” Lorenzo clarifies. Ciro watches him bite the inside of his cheek.

“Oh.”

Oh because Ciro hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t expected Lorenzo to ask the question so soon or ever, really, if past experiences are any indicator, but maybe he should have because leaving things unspoken and unsaid didn’t exactly work out well the last time.

“There’s a train from Rome to Napoli.” Ciro offers. He feels Lorenzo relax beside him and shift close enough for their lips to touch.

“There’s a train from Napoli to Rome.” Lorenzo supplies in turn, reaching up to cup the side of his face. Ciro turns his head to kiss the inside of his palm before Lorenzo pulls him in for a proper kiss.

It doesn't fix everything, but it's a start. 

**Author's Note:**

> • they like to stare at each other [a lot](http://capitano-ale.tumblr.com/post/165647425339) like, [a whole lot](http://capitano-ale.tumblr.com/post/165646917539/ciro-immobile-and-lorezno-insigne-before-the-lazio)
> 
> • lorenzo really likes [climbing ciro like a tree](http://capitano-ale.tumblr.com/post/158849506964) really, [it's a lot](https://nst.sky.it/immagini/sport/mondiali_calcio/2014/06/08/original/immobile-insigne_getty.jpg)
> 
> • here, [have a vintage~ pescara days interview](http://viamilanello.tumblr.com/post/121307624145/baby-ciro-immobile-and-lorenzo-insigne-pescara)
> 
> • thank you for reading! and come join me in the angst pile on [tumblr](ikercasiillas.tumblr.com)


End file.
